Uninvited
by Lizzie Fitz
Summary: Ten years after the crash of Flight 815, Jack encounters Sawyer


**1. Paradise Motors**

In passing Jack's wife mentioned liking a colleague's car. Normally it wasn't the sort of remark that lodged in his mind, but this one did. Their anniversary approached. The car as a gift struck him as a good idea. It wasn't a major anniversary, and the expense of the gift was far outside the habits of their marriage. Yet perhaps for those very reasons the idea stayed with him, and he liked it better with each day. It was flamboyant, extravagant, out of character. It had wildness to it, but with no consequences. So one afternoon he opened the phone book. The nearest dealer was a place called Paradise Motors.

Paradise. Island paradise; that was the word association a lot of people would make. It wasn't one that came immediately to Jack. The island had certainly had its beauty, and at times he'd been calm enough, or dispassionate enough, to see it. And there had been moments where that strange and haunted place had been paradise for him. Only a few, and he remembered each of them thoroughly. But there had been so much else. Those last few days before the rescue, so many dead, so few left, no supplies—the choices that had to be made. What had Shannon called it? Craphole Island. That was more like it. No, _island_ and _paradise_ was not a connection that came easily to him.

Locke's ridiculous memoir had been called _Island of Destiny_. What nonsense. Fate, destiny; the farther away Jack got from the island, the more contempt with which he regarded those concepts. God knows he'd had a bellyful of them on the island from Locke himself. No. Back on terra firma Jack was a man of science again. Fate was an excuse, a crutch for the weak. Locke's memoir had been so much gibberish. Jack wondered where Locke was these days. The book had been a bestseller, and Locke, the sometime collections manager, had become something of a guru. No doubt even now he was at some third-rate college, surrounded by ignorant teenagers hoping to have life explained for them. No doubt Locke was happy to oblige.

Dark thoughts for a happy outing. Jack shook them off in the parking lot. It was called Paradise Motors, and, this being southern California, there were palm trees. But otherwise the place was as pale and chill as an operating theater; there were no tiki torches or leis. Everything was beige and bland; the building itself was modern, undistinguished. Perhaps it was all just to make a better background for the luxury automobiles, all dark gleaming. Perhaps the owner just had a very spare esthetic. (A word Jack wouldn't have known ten years ago; his wife had broadened his horizons a little.) Yet to Jack it seemed the blandness of uncertainty, a hand afraid of making the wrong choice, and so making no choice at all.

Somehow the sense was reinforced by the salesgirl, who seemed to be the only person in the showroom. She was young and attractive, tall and big-bosomed and redheaded. Her suit was as tasteful and bland as the room itself, but Jack had the sense it was unfamiliar and not quite comfortable to her yet. Her haircut wasn't as good as her suit. But in a few weeks the rough edges would be off, and she would be as fitting as the good beige chairs.

These were unusual thoughts for him. He was a surgeon, and patients came and went quickly. So many faces. He spent little time with any of them, he learned little about them. Once he'd thought his father was wrong in his detachment. Now he knew better. You did what you could for them. Their bodies you might be able to fix, you did your best. The spirit—no, he was sounding like Locke again—the personality was not relevant. He certainly didn't engage in speculation about the background, and prospects, of car salesgirls.

He shook off this train of thought. They went for a brief ride. The car was wonderful, unlike anything he'd driven. Solid but nimble. A good line. A good esthetic, he thought to himself, smiling. Yes, she'll like it. So the business was done fairly quickly; he chose a color, a few options. A brief discussion of cost. He was in no mood to haggle; get the girl off to a good start. The thought left him feeling benevolent and insightful.

"I'll just show this to my manager," the girl said apologetically. A little nasal. Not a native of southern California. Somewhere in the Midwest. Perhaps she had read Locke's book and even been inspired by it. Perhaps Locke's book had led her here—to the car dealership of destiny. The thought made him smirk.

But there was no manager. The salesgirl had found another woman, a little older, also attractive and quietly dressed. "But I don't want to keep him waiting," Jack heard. The nasal note a little stronger. I've got a good one on the hook, Jack could almost hear her saying. Don't let him wriggle off. No doubt Locke would be amused by the Man of Science's imagination…

The older woman sighed. "I'll get Mr. Ford," she said.

A few more moments. The late afternoon sunlight came strongly through the big windows. The windshields of the gleaming cars were solid gold. Outside the obligatory palms waved a little. Island paradise…

A voice he had not heard in ten years, but one he could not mistake. "Where's Brody?"

"He's got a dentist appointment."

"Murphy? Slate?"

"Due in at five."

"Call one of them now. Goddamnit, I don't want a trainee out on the floor alone. Where's the paperwork?"

Jack turned, looking for the source of that voice. The glare from the windshields hurt his eyes; the hallway from which the voices came was dark. The sales girl, triply nasal: "I thought I should go ahead--"

"I'm not mad at you." There was the old charm in that voice again. How it had grated on Jack's nerves. No doubt the sales girl would be calming down, perhaps even smiling a little. Women all went weak at that tone. "I'll finish this up. But get someone else in here. Now."

He came forward, still looking over the paperwork, and so Jack had a minute to observe without being observed. Sawyer was older, no question; his hair was darker than it had been in the harsh sunlight of the island, cut shorter and expensively, and gray at the temples. Sawyer with gray hair! But his own wasn't so dark any more…. Sawyer's suit, too, was expensive, and wonderfully tailored. But he wore cowboy boots with the suit. A redneck in an Italian suit. The strangeness and appropriateness of it struck Jack at once.

Jack rose, uncertain. Sawyer's hand was already out before he looked up. Their eyes met for the first time in ten years. Surely Sawyer was remembering too. But he was still a cool customer. "Well," he said. The hand dropped. "My office is back this way."

Without a word Jack followed him into the dark hallway. Even in the heavy boots Sawyer walked well; no one would have guessed. "Mr. Ford..." The sales girl started.

"Later," he said, and to the older woman, "No calls."

**2. In Mr. Ford's office**

The office was big but just as beige and bland as the rest of the place. The desk was big and full of paper but not messy. There was something that might be a small picture frame, but Jack could only see the back of it. Was it possible? Jack's mouth was dry. He sat down in one of the beige chairs in front of the desk. The door closed. He remembered, wryly, Sawyer's fondness for guns and his quicksilver temper. But a fight behind closed doors was never Sawyer's way. He leaned back.

Sawyer sat down behind the desk. "Small world," he said.

Yes, a small world. Even on that island it had been surprising just how small the world was. This man had perhaps been the last human being to ever speak to Jack's father, half a world and a lifetime ago. And then he had gotten on a plane—they had all gotten on a plane….

"I have to say I'm surprised," Sawyer said. "I don't suppose you're rounding up the Scooby gang for a reunion."

"No," Jack said. "I had no idea when I came in here."

Sawyer grunted. In the silence Jack realized it wasn't just the passage of time that made this Sawyer only half-familiar. The face was thinner and more harshly drawn than before. But he was clean-shaven. To Jack's eyes that was the strangest thing.

Jack said: "So this is yours?"

"Yes, it's mine." His eyes narrowed. "I come by it honestly."

"I didn't say.…"

"But you thought."

Jack was silent for a minute. Of course he thought. Then: "Paradise?"

"I couldn't call it Ford's."

True enough; but not the whole truth, surely. "Pretty impressive."

And there was the old Sawyer again, a smile that was half-sneer. "Yeah," he said. "I guess that bitch Destiny's paid off a few debts to me."

"I'm glad to see it."

Sawyer grunted again. "I'm sure you are." His eyes were narrow. "So you're just here for a car."

"Yes."

"Well." He put the contract down, leaned back. "I appreciate what you did—out there." His voice was neutral. "And I'm happy to sell you a car. But that's it."

"That's all I want."

Sawyer took up a gold pen, signed the contract. He held it out, but when Jack reached for it, he pulled it back. The smirk again; then he grew serious. "Nobody here knows—nobody here knows I was there. Nobody connects me with any of that. And that's how I want it." He swallowed, hard. "I have things here—I don't want any of it brought up again. Ever."

"I understand," Jack said simply. "Really, I do. And I admire—"

"Oh, can it, doc," Sawyer said. He handed him the contract. "Your car will be here on Friday. We'll deliver. You can sign the rest of the paperwork then."

Jack took the contract. "That's fine." But he didn't stand. He'd noticed that Sawyer wore a ring on his left hand. He took a breath. "I have to ask."

"No, you don't," Sawyer said. "But you're going to anyway."

The long silence. Surely Sawyer knew what the next question would be, but he gave no help; rather he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. "You shouldn't smoke," Jack said without thinking.

"I have to keep at least one bad old habit."

No, you don't, Jack thought. "You're not in contact with anyone? Not even Michael? Jin?"

"Nobody. Not once. And I want it that way."

That was his one question. But it wasn't enough of an answer. Jack said, "Kate. Is she still with you?"

Sawyer looked down. Smoke uncoiled upwards, half-obscuring his face. "No," he said simply.

"What happened?"

Sawyer took a long drag, let it out. Was his hand not as steady as he thought? "She was gone the moment the plane hit the tarmac. I was just a convenient escape."

Was he surprised? When he'd thought of her in these last ten years, he'd assumed she was with Sawyer, that the decision she'd made that last day had been the final one for her. She had been so determined, so sure. But she had changed her mind before. "I'm shocked," he said finally.

"Why?" Sawyer was looking down, toying with his cigarette. "She played us both a few times. She was the best I ever saw. And I've seen a few."

"Do you know where she is?" Jack asked.

"I have no idea. My guess is she's still running. Hell, she loved running more than she ever loved either of us. Why do you care?"

Jack shrugged. "For the same reason I assume you'd care."

"Well, I don't. And you've asked more than one question, Columbo. If you haven't solved your mystery yet it's time to move on." He stood.

In spite of himself Jack smiled. "You haven't changed that much."

"My temper's worse. I meant what I said about not wanting this dug up."

"Or what? You'll shoot me? Your aim was pretty terrible."

"I've been practicing," Sawyer said dryly. "Give your paperwork to Georgia on your way out. And when the car needs servicing—have your wife bring it in, doc."

He took the papers. Sawyer's hostility was as alive and crackling as static electricity. It nettled Jack. Of course there had been enmity, jealousy. But in the end…. "Listen," he said. "I know you don't believe it. But I did what I had to do. What was best."

"Maybe you did," Sawyer said slowly. "I'm glad you're so sure you done right. I'm not so sure myself. So it's best if we don't spend any more time jawing over the old days."

I saved your life, Jack wanted to say, more than once. Those last few days on the island… He knew he had done right; he knew it. He should have let it go. But he couldn't stop himself. "She begged me to do it," he said.

"Yes, I know," Sawyer said. "And you couldn't say no to her. Good-bye, doc."

Without quite knowing how it happened, Jack was back in the hallway, and the door was closed. He stood for a moment in the cool darkness. Then he walked down to the older woman's office. He thought about tearing up the contract. Then he realized how ridiculous the idea was; he almost smiled at the idea of Sawyer tampering with the brakes. He handed the paperwork to Georgia. She said: "You know Mr. Ford?"

Mr. Ford. "Not really," he said. I knew a man called Sawyer. "Bet he's a hard boss."

She shrugged. "But he's fair. And he pays well."

"Been here long?"

"Three years." She smiled. "We're already the second-largest dealership on the West Coast. Only the one in Brentwood does better."

"Very nice," he said. In here there were pictures. One caught his eye. It must have been the opening, for there was a red ribbon across the door. And Sawyer, grinning that shit-eating grin of his. But that wasn't what he noticed. In Sawyer's arms was a small boy.

He stepped closer, getting a better look. She wasn't in the picture. But the boy—even in so small a picture you noticed the freckles.

"We'll deliver on Friday," Georgia said. "Is it a gift?"

"Yes," Jack said. "It's a gift all right."

"We'll put a bow on."

"You do that," Jack said, and smiled.

**3. But the Red Sox did win**

After the door was closed again, Sawyer leaned against it, as if it needed the extra weight to stay closed. Sweet Jesus! Ten years. Of all the gin joints in the world…. Well, it was bound to happen someday, wasn't it? Small world. The Red Sox will never win the World Series. But they did, Jack, they did. What does that mean? Everything's on fate or nothing is. Well, this feels like fate. Fate's a bitch. But we know that better than most.

His shirt was clammy and stuck to his back. He went into his bathroom, turned on the taps, and splashed water on his face. His hands weren't too steady. He looked at himself. Sawyer. Sawyer. It was a name he never even let himself think. When he'd first come back from the island it had taken a long time to get used to his real name again. He hadn't been James Ford since he'd been a teenager. Now he was only James Ford. He couldn't stop himself. "Sawyer," he said out loud to his reflection. Nothing happened. The ceiling didn't fall, the mirror didn't crack, no one heard. No one heard. He was still James Ford, safe and successful. All this was his, he'd done all this. This bathroom, with its big brass fittings, the big desk outside, the thick carpeting in the hallways, the terrazzo showroom floors. The big dark beautiful cars. All of it was his, and it curled around him and protected him. Safe, he thought. It means nothing. A coincidence.

He sat back down at his desk. A coincidence. Was it, really? He pulled out the phone book. St. Sebastian's, that had been his hospital before. Why did he remember that? Eko talking about the saint with all the arrows. That made Sawyer smile. Surely Jack had thought of himself as a martyr. St. Sebastian's wasn't all that close. He felt cold. Jack had been so anxious to ask about Kate. Bastard. He went to the white pages. Jack the Shepherd. Sawyer the black sheep. That had to be him; the home address was only a few blocks away. He felt a little less cold. A coincidence, just a coincidence. Why drive all the way to Brentwood? But I should have checked, Sawyer thought. Should have checked. For three years he's just been ten minutes away.

He smoked another cigarette. His shirt started to feel less sticky. He smoked another. Then, he figured, Jack had to be gone by now. He tested his legs; steady enough. He walked out.

To Georgia he said: "You got everything from Shepherd?"

"Yes, it's all in order."

"Who's on the floor?"

"Slate and Murphy. Janet's still here too."

"Good," he said. "I'm going home."

"Really?" Georgia said. "It's not even five."

"You'll manage," he said.

"Have a nice evening," she said.

As he walked out he thought: I should have torn up that contract. Best to have no contact at all. But Jack had paid list price. That thought brought a small, involuntary smile. I come by it honestly. But I don't mind taking your money, St. Jack.

**4. Mrs. Ford**

She was working in the garden and didn't hear him come in. When she opened the sliding glass door she paused, surprised to hear footsteps overhead. Then she relaxed. She knew his footfall better than she knew her own face these days. On good days his step was still even. But his knee was just about past repair. He couldn't bring himself to face the inevitable, and so he was grinding away on the hip now as well. When he was tired the bad leg dragged. It was dragging now.

By the time she got upstairs he was already in the Jacuzzi. "I didn't hear you come in," she said.

"I called."

"I was in the garden."

"I figured. Apparently I ain't as loud as I thought."

She sat on the edge of the tub. His eyes were closed. He looked worse than tired. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"You're never home this early."

"It's Monday. It'll be slow." He opened his eyes, made a mock scowl. "You don't seem happy to see me, woman. You entertaining the pool boy?"

"As if we had one." She touched his cheek. "You'll be home for dinner? Cal will be happy."

"I'm home for the whole damned night. Where is the sprout?"

"He's at Nate's. I was just about to go pick him up. Otherwise I'd get in with you."

"Promises, promises."

"You're not supposed to stay in for more than fifteen minutes," she said.

"I can tell time."

"And for God's sake don't let a butt drop in again. They clog the filters."

"One more nag, woman, and you're coming in, willing or not."

"Promises, promises," she said, and pushed him under.

When he came up he was smiling for real. "What's for dinner?"

She stood up. "You know where the takeout menus are. Or did you think I was going to cook for you?"

"You're a hard woman, Freckles."

"That's why you like me."

**5. The lies of John Locke**

Locke's book had been a bestseller. It contained many pages of musing on the intertwining of faith and destiny, not easy going for a casual read. But it was also a pretty accurate account of those 108 days; that's what made it sell. Locke didn't spare himself, accepting blame for the deaths of Boone Carlyle and Eko. (He also said a few harsh things about his biological father. Mr. Cooper's lawyer told the unhappy man that truth was an absolute defense to libel, so the harsh things stayed in subsequent editions.)

There were a few lies in there. Sawyer, the grifter, started bad, rose, stumbled, and rose again, bravely disabling the security system, allowing his fellow castaways to finally contact the outside world. But in Locke's account Sawyer's valiant act was a fatal one. And in Locke's account the story of Kate Austen, fugitive, followed a similar arc; she too worked tirelessly for the good of the others and perished in the attempt. Sacrifices demanded by the island, two reprobates who had reached for redemption and grabbed hold of it.

The book scarcely mentioned many of the castaways. More than sixty had survived the crash; of the ten that were rescued, only a few played large roles in Locke's telling. James Ford was scarcely mentioned, save as another brave man who nearly lost his life in the final days of their ordeal. The name Joanna Miller appeared only twice in the book.

Jack had made it possible for Sawyer and Kate to escape on a medevac even before the media swarmed. Locke's lies had made it possible for them to disappear even in the publicity that glared and then lingered for so long. On those two threads the last ten years, and all they had brought, depended. Kate worried about Locke, because he never stopped talking about the island. Even now he popped up on morning talk shows. Sawyer trusted him, for reasons she couldn't quite fathom; she suspected that perhaps Sawyer had been more swayed by Locke's mysticism than he could bear to admit. But for ten years Locke had written and talked and never betrayed them.

Time made Sawyer's old grifts embarrassing but inconsequential. But the statute of limitations on murder didn't run out. Sawyer didn't know if anything could connect him to the murder of Frank Duckett in Australia. Kate was only too well connected to murder. Frank Sawyer and Kate Austen had no futures. James and Joanna Ford were safe, respectable, and with each passing year the future held less terror. As long as no one connected the two sets of lives. The island was the one thing that could do that.

**6. A quiet evening with the Fords**

Cal was happy to have his father home for dinner. It was rare enough. But then Cal was a happy kid almost all the time. He was a surprise to both his parents that way. He was a good boy, but mostly he was a happy one. He liked cold breakfast cereal and his Dodgers uniform and the garage behind his daddy's showroom and the smell of the new cars. Most of all he liked his treehouse and after dinner, while his parents sat on the patio, he ran to it.

"What's he do up there?" Sawyer asked.

"I don't know," Kate said.

"I can't believe we bought the one damned house in southern California without a pool," he said. It was an old complaint.

"I like the yard better." It was hard to get the things she liked to grow here. Too warm. But she kept trying.

"You don't have to mow it," he said.

"You don't mow it either."

"Good point."

It was a warm night, but he'd put on jeans and his boots. "Aren't you hot?" she asked.

"I'm fine."

"Cal knows, you know."

"He don't have to see it." This was an old conversation too. She didn't pursue it.

It was a good-sized yard, with her garden and real trees, and private. They sat out there most nights. When dusk fell she turned on the lights. He put aside whatever paperwork he'd brought out and picked up a book. He hadn't been a reader until the island. It was one thing from there he couldn't shake. She'd brought one out too but didn't bother. Something was not quite right, but his profile told her nothing. Perhaps it was nothing.

Finally she called: "Cal, come on in."

"Five more minutes, please."

"Now."

"Four more minutes. Please."

"Does he have a watch?" Sawyer said. "Hey, Kazoo, your mother said now. That means now."

"I'm coming," Cal said.

But he came slowly. Kate said, "He knows the sprinklers are going to come on. He'll get all wet."

"Well, it'll save a bath," Sawyer said.

She stood up, meaning to go hurry Cal along. But he pulled her down into his lap, and his arms went around her. Surprised, it was a moment before she relaxed, and her arms found his neck. His cheek was rough and she remembered, vividly, the first kisses on the island. The fear and the uncertainty of it all. That same charge passed through her. Something had happened today, she thought.

But he said nothing. Words often hadn't been kind to them; in the early days they had reached for the wrong ones, and wounded, even without intent. So she too said nothing, but she clung to him, and she broke away only when she realized Cal was there, dripping and smiling.

**7. A goose walked over my grave today  
**

When they left the island she couldn't get used to calling him James. The name seemed wrong to her. And he had never been a Jim or a Jimmy or a Jamie, and he had no desire to be. In the end she called him Ford; it seemed less strange, and, as he pointed out, was more suitable than asshole. In her mind he was never James or Ford; he was still Sawyer, always. But it never slipped out.

The lights were off, but she knew he wasn't asleep. She said it, quiet but deliberate. "Sawyer."

She could feel him go tense. "Don't use that name."

"I'm in my own bedroom in the dead of night. No one's listening. I'll use if I want to." She turned to him, touched his shoulder. Her tone was much softer. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said.

Some confidence man, she thought; his lies had never been convincing to her. "Please. Tell me."

He sighed. "Nothing," he said again. "It's just—just a goose walked over my grave today. It's nothing more than that."

She thought about it. He had always been moody. In the beginning the suddenness and deepness of his depressions, which he covered with his temper and sharp tongue, had amazed her. The farther away they got from the island, the better things got, the safer they felt, and those troughs were less frequent, less severe. But he could still be unnerved by his own success; that troubled him more than setbacks. These last three years he had done better than either of them could have expected. Perhaps he still wondered if he deserved it, wondered how—not if—he would lose it.

She decided to accept it. She settled down beside him and went for lightness. "A goose," she said. "I hope you gave it what-for. Or do you only shoot polar bears?"

"I've been known to take shots at mouthy women."

"You've been known to miss the broad side of a barn. I bet the goose got away."

He pulled her closer. Before they'd left the island she'd cut her hair off, and she'd kept it short ever since. Too memorable. But how wonderful it had been, wild and curling in the damp. He still missed it. He asked, "Are you happy?" It was the question whose answer he needed to hear; even after all this time he had to ration himself.

"Yes," she said. There is nothing I want that I don't have. But she thought the one word said more. Yes. Yes.

He stroked her arm. "I would do anything for you, Kate."

"I know."

"To protect you."

"I know, Sawyer." She smiled. "You must have sold a big one today."

"I did. Full freight."

"No wonder you're so gloomy. Was it the new girl?"

"It was."

"She's a pretty girl."

"She don't have freckles, though."

She felt better. The are-you-happy question gave him away. He had looked at his life and gotten a little rattled; it would pass. After ten years of hearing yes he was getting better at accepting it. When she slept that night, no dreams of the island troubled her.

He might have told her then. He almost did. But he was afraid. He'd heard yes for ten years, and he'd heard it even when he'd given her a passel of grief. He and Kate had been through a lot since leaving the island, they'd weathered all of it. He'd come to the conclusion that some things were just too hard to face, and they were best left alone. Virtually everything that had happened on the island fell into that dead zone. Jack Shepherd was near the top of the list of things that Sawyer didn't want re-aired. Here she was now, warm against him, happy. Leave it be.

**8. Jack takes the wheel**

The car was delivered and it was a great success. "You are listening!" his wife exclaimed. But after a week she went back to her old car; the new car wasn't as convenient.

"I suppose I could take it back," Jack said.

"Nonsense, keep it. It's the sort of car a successful surgeon should drive."

"But it was for you."

"I'll keep the putter, if that makes you happy."

So he drove the car. It was a beautiful thing, all fine soft surfaces inside. He enjoyed it.

Perhaps if his wife had kept the car it would have ended there. But every evening, in the garage, the nameplate struck him again. Paradise. And every evening, he thought: Sawyer's lying. I know he is.

Well, what if he was? It would be understandable. James Ford, proprietor of Paradise Motors, the second-biggest dealership on the West Coast, certainly would have no desire to be connected to Frank Sawyer, grifter. And if Kate were with him, he'd have all the more reason to worry.

But it gnawed at him. They had spent 108 days on the island. Nothing in his life would ever match the intensity of those days. Surely it was the same for all of them. And then, just when things seemed the worst, it ended abruptly. There had been no time for discussion, no real good-byes. He had seen to it that Sawyer was gotten out first, and quietly; he'd given Kate the option of going with him. She had taken it, and the doctored passport Sawyer had kept, and not looked back.

He'd only been half-surprised. She'd broken with Sawyer, she had come to him. But those last days, after the security system had been destroyed, with Sawyer's life in the balance, she had been on the verge of hysteria, overwhelmed by guilt and fear. Once before she had crumbled before Sawyer's need; he wasn't surprised she did it again.

But she'd changed her mind once. If there had been time, if those last days hadn't been so panicked and desperate, what might have happened? After all these years, Jack still didn't know what she'd felt for him. He was amazed by how much he needed to know.

In the movies the offices of private detectives are small and smoky and at the end of a three-floor walkup. The one Jack found himself in looked a lot like Paradise Motors, and the man across the desk from him was nearly as well dressed as Sawyer. He showed no curiosity as Jack bumbled out his request. "Of course," the detective murmured. They agreed to meet in a week's time. Jack had never felt so dirty. He could imagine what that detective must be thinking.

But he went back in a week. The detective had amassed a good, professional-looking dossier. He went through it: James Ford, born in Knoxville in 1968, murder-suicide of parents, foster homes. Thereafter a career as a confidence man, with varying success. Frequently suspected, arrested a few times, never tried or convicted. Unexplained trip to Australia; the crash of Flight 815. After that, a complete change: worked steadily as a car salesmen, got his own franchise three years ago. All his accounts up to date, taxes paid. No brushes with the law. A model citizen, in fact. "Far as I can tell, this man hasn't even littered in the last ten years. Amazing. You'd almost think someone else came back from Australia."

You'd almost think. Jack hated himself, but he couldn't resist asking: "Women?"

"Didn't pick up any hint of it. He works long days and goes home after. Trust me, if he had a girl on the side we'd have found it." The detective folded his hands and got the happy the-tests-are-negative look. "Mr. Smith, if you're worried, this man isn't involved with your wife."

Jack grimaced. "I never thought he was. Where'd he get the money for the franchise?"

"He and his wife settled separately with Oceanic and Hanso. They didn't get as much as the class action group did, but it was a good-sized amount. He owns the franchise and the lot outright."

"His wife?" Jack asked. "She settled with them also?"

"Yes, she was a survivor too. Joanna—Miller, that's it. She's another strange story. Apparently she's never been in touch with any of her old family or friends. That must have been some magical island."

Jack's mouth was very dry. Joanna Miller. Sawyer had lied. Kate hadn't run; she was right here, and with Sawyer. Finally, he was able to say, "Thank you. This has been very helpful."

"Here's your copy," the detective said, and handled over the dossier. "You're pleased with our work?"

"Very," Jack said.

In the car Jack thumbed through it. Much of it wasn't interesting; he didn't care about Sawyer's American Express bills or the tax valuation on his house. Nor was he much interested in the pictures: Sawyer getting into his car at home, Sawyer getting out of his car at work, Sawyer pumping gas, Sawyer opening the door for a delivery man. There were no pictures of Kate. But he didn't need to see any. He went back to the tax valuation and stared at it for a long time. The address. If he really needed answers, he knew where to look for them.

And he had something that he knew Kate would want back.

**9. Ten years**

Cal started first grade. For a week or so he was mopish, and Sawyer tried too hard to jolly him out of it. Kate had worried about what sort of father Sawyer would be; one thing he never talked about was what his family had been like before it fell apart. On the whole he managed well enough. Sometimes he was too quick with his tongue, forgetting that a six-year-old wouldn't understand his sarcasm. But his real weakness was spoiling the boy; there was no telling just how far he'd go. Mockingbird, diamond ring, whatever. Someday, Kate worried, it would be cars and God knows what else. But Cal didn't seem spoiled; if he was going to learn how to manipulate his father's weaknesses he hadn't done it yet.

After a week Cal decided he liked school. "So you don't need to buy the Dodgers," Kate said.

"He likes school?" Sawyer asked. "You know, I've often wondered if he's really my kid. Now I wonder if he's really yours."

"I was a straight-A student," Kate said.

"And queen of the 4-H club. Still not buying it, Freckles."

"If you really want to make Cal happy you could come home early more often."

"It's September," Sawyer said. "New models. We'll be pretty busy for a while."

Lucky he'd chosen a profession that was busy in September. It didn't leave much time for thinking when the anniversary rolled around. In the past they had avoided any commemoration or discussion of it. The island was always there, in the middle ground of their lives. The physical scars were there, day in and day out, and neither of them needed a calendar to remember. Though in the early years he'd gotten sodden drunk around the anniversary of the end. That hadn't happened in a long time; not since Cal.

But ten years. It seemed wrong to let it go without some kind of acknowledgement. But she didn't know how to approach it. In the beginning, when they'd left the island, he had been so bitter, he'd blamed her. She understood. She didn't doubt the choice she'd made in those last days. She had been desperate for two things: his life and a rescue. No, one thing; she would have given up the rescue for his life. If she had to make the choice again, she would make the same one. But Sawyer had never been really convinced the choice had to be made, and in the beginning that uncertainty had tainted everything.

Why had she stayed with him then? She'd had the passport; she didn't have to go with Sawyer. She knew why. Back in those days she hadn't understood him as well as she did now, but she had known one thing for certain: he loved her. After everything that had passed between them, it was as true on the last day as it had been on the fiftieth, and it would be true until the day he died. Locke had his faith in the island, Jack in reason; she had her faith in Sawyer's love. He would be angry, he would be bitter, he would be cutting and cold and say terrible things; but in the end the bad times would pass and he would love her still.

So she had stayed with him, and taken all of it from him, even though she thought she didn't deserve most of it. On paper it would have looked like a terrible gamble; the straight-A student and experienced fugitive should have walked away from it. But she had been right. And how her gamble had paid off. This much she had never expected.

But as the anniversary approached she found she wanted to talk about the island. What she wanted to say she didn't know. All she knew was that she wanted something and she was afraid to ask Sawyer for it. She hadn't lost her faith in his love, but there was so much more to lose. Cal couldn't live through what she had taken ten years ago; she wasn't sure she could. And she was sure that all that anger was still in Sawyer somewhere. In the end he would love her still, but if the lives they had built so carefully were destroyed that love might not be enough.

**10. Anniversary present**

On the morning of the 22nd two rose bushes were delivered. It was the wrong time of the year to plant them, and they wouldn't grow well in her garden anyway; she'd tried and failed with roses before. But she was moved. That was Sawyer: sloppy execution canceled by the sterling motive.

When she called, he said, "They weren't supposed to be delivered today."

She didn't believe it. "Come home," she said.

There was a long pause. "I can't, not right now."

"Please. I want to talk to you. S—I need to talk to you."

A longer pause. "I'll be home for dinner. I promise."

By dinner, of course, Cal would be home, and the evening would slide away. She was close to tears. He had tried, but after all these years she understood the limits. He could handle his memories of the island only alone, and only with silence. So she too would be alone today, alone with her thoughts and memories. Perhaps she always would be. She went into the yard and planted the bushes. When she looked at the tag and found out the bushes were for a white rose called Katherine she felt worse.

She came in and washed the dirt off her hands. She thought she heard a car outside. She didn't even stop to dry her hands. It wouldn't be the first time she'd underestimated Sawyer...

And she opened the door to Jack Shepherd. A hallucination, she thought. "Jack?" she said finally.

"For a minute I thought you didn't recognize me."

So he was real. Yes, she'd have recognized him anywhere. He was older, but not much changed for it; his hair was still clipped very short, though it was heavily gray. "How did you find me?"

"I saw Sawyer a few weeks ago." A thin little smile. "Actually, I bought a car from him. Good car, but I suspect I paid too much."

"You bought a car?" A few weeks ago. A goose walking over his grave, indeed. And he hadn't told her. That realization, and the awareness that he was standing on her front step, in view of the whole world, made her open the door and step back. "You'd better come in."

Without thinking she led him through the house and out to the patio. Without thinking she took her usual seat, and Jack took Sawyer's. And there he was, sitting beside her, the future she might have chosen, and did not.

"Obviously Sawyer didn't tell you," Jack said.

This was dangerous territory. "Let me understand," she said. "You just walked into his dealership? To buy a car?"

He shrugged. "It was just a coincidence."

Of course Jack believed in coincidence. Locke was the one who believed in destiny. Sitting here, which did she believe? Her whole life had been shifted by a plane crash, she who had schemed and lied and perhaps killed to retain possession of a tin toy plane. And this man on her doorstep on this anniversary. Coincidence? No, she thought, something sharper than coincidence.

"I don't think you should be here," she said finally.

"You're probably right," Jack said. "I'm a little surprised that I am. But...you know what day it is."

Of course she knew. "In Australia it's already tomorrow," she said. "So you're a day late."

Jack smiled. "I see you've picked up Sawyer's sense of humor."

"Jack, why are you here?"

Jack smiled a little. "I have something that belongs to you. I guess I always thought I'd get the chance to give it back to you someday." He took out the toy plane, laid it on the table. "You left in such a hurry."

She could not even bring herself to touch it. When she had been on the run that plane had been her obsession, finding it and keeping it. It was the sole link to the life she'd once assumed she'd have, to the life that had gone up in smoke along with her father. To keep it meant to keep the memory of that lost life, of that lost man, still alive. Taking absurd risks to get it back had been a form of penance.

Rescue had come on her so fast. Jack had given her Joanna Miller's passport and told her Sawyer was going out first; there was room for her if she wanted to go. She had taken the passport and gone. Only later had she remembered what she'd left behind. It had shaken her, but she'd come to see the rightness of it. They were leaving their old selves behind, they had been given a chance to start clean. She was leaving the island as Joanna Miller and she would be Joanna Ford; Kate Austen had to be left behind, Kate Austen and all she had done and loved and dreamed.

And here it was all again. And here was Jack, another future foreclosed. She could not decide which disturbed her more.

"You never told me why it meant so much to you," Jack said. He couldn't keep the sadness out of his voice. Perhaps a little bitterness, too. There had been so much she hadn't told. The plane; what crime had driven her to running; what she'd really felt for him. At times he had believed she loved him. On the island he'd thought she'd turned to Sawyer because she felt Jack was too demanding, that she could not measure up to his standards. She hadn't told him otherwise. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me now."

"I don't suppose I am."

Jack smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant smile. "Perhaps even if you did I wouldn't know whether to believe you."

She wanted to protest. But it was fair enough; she had lied to him, and when she hadn't lied, she had omitted. "No, you wouldn't."

He hated himself, but he asked: "Does Sawyer know?"

"That's none of your business, Jack."

"You know, he said you weren't with him. He said you'd vanished the minute the plane hit the tarmac. That you loved running more than you'd loved him. Or me, for that matter."

"He said that?"

"I guess he just wanted to throw me off the scent."

"I guess." But she was hurt. He could not believe that, not after ten years. Could he? "Thank you for—keeping it all this time. Thank you for returning it. And I think you should go now."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean—that sounded harsh. I didn't come here intending to say hard things to you."

"I still think you should go."

"I just wanted…. You don't know what it's like, Kate. You married Sawyer. You live, everyday, with someone who was there. Who knows." He sighed. "My wife is a very nice woman. But she can't begin to understand. Or maybe it's just that I don't know where to start explaining. It's ten years, Kate. Ten years! Once I knew you were nearby, I couldn't let it go by. I just couldn't let it go by."

She should have stood up right then, shown him the door. But he couldn't have chosen any words better suited to keep her from rising. "Ten years," she echoed.

"I nearly didn't make the plane," he said. "They didn't want to let my father's coffin on. Can you believe it?"

"I remember," she said. "You were the one that held up the line."

**11. The photograph on Mr. Ford's desk**

After Kate called, Sawyer went back to work. Back when he was grifting, he had taken jobs from time to time as part of a con, but he'd never thought himself suited to regular work. The island had taught him otherwise; he'd learned to be busy. Of course he'd done it at first just to curry a little favor with Kate. But he'd learned, and it had served him well when they finally made it back to the mainland. Now he could spend hours at his desk, he knew the smallest details of this place.

Back on the island he'd learned to do an honest day's work, but he'd never lost the reputation of the slacker and the hoarder. Stealing from the dead: that was the favorite epithet. Well, he'd stolen from the living, and stealing from the dead bothered him less. And those who snapped that phrase were anxious enough to lay their hands on those things stolen from the dead; they just wanted to convince themselves that their hands, unlike his, were clean.

But the bad reputation stuck. When she came to him the first time, he warned her: You'll sink to my level in their eyes. I won't rise up to yours. Can you face that? Because she cared, he knew. She was a thief and a murderer and a liar but she had winnowed herself into the good graces of most of the survivors, and she was still enough of a straight-A, small-town girl to care. You'll sink, he'd said, and if you don't want that hurt I'll understand. She had said she understood, and it wasn't enough to stop her. Not exactly an answer to boost a man's pride, but he'd appreciated her honesty. When she gave him truth he knew he was getting something more than her kisses or her body; he was getting the one thing she would never give up to Jack, had perhaps never given up to any other man.

She had minded, though, and he'd minded how much she minded. They had broken for other reasons, but that was the main one. Without her, knowing she'd gone to Jack, he'd sunk past the point of making good by chopping wood or carrying water. In the end there had been only one path of redemption. Had he gone into the security system to get her back, or just to end it?

He ate lunch at his desk. Yes, he'd brought a work ethic back from the island. God knows it had served him well. He was almost glad Jack Shepherd had shown up. Let the good doctor know that the sinner could rise, and keep his hands as clean as any surgeon's at the same time. He sold a good product and offered a good service. If it made him rich, well, that's the way it was supposed to work. Any man might be proud. Any woman.

Yes, he'd brought back a work ethic. And a habit of voracious, if directionless, reading. And Kate, of course. From those three things all the other good things had come. Yes, he'd brought back good things from the island.

And he had left something behind.

A wave broke over him then: regret? Nostalgia? Was it possible to be nostalgic for something as hellish as Craphole Island? They said addicts had to hit rock bottom before they could get better. His rock bottom had been deep indeed.

All these years he had been proud of the material things he offered her, the security and the respectability. You see? I can rise to your level after all, this time there's no pulling down. On the island that's what she had wanted. Now it was what he had to give. But was it still what she wanted?

On his desk he kept a single photograph of Kate. It wasn't a good one. She had cut her hair herself, and it had been freshly dyed an unflattering blonde in the motel sink. She was still wearing hand-me-downs that had been donated by the nurses at the hospital in Hawaii. Her eyes were red.

The first thing they'd done, when he was out of the hospital and they were back on the mainland, was go to Disneyland. They stayed in a cheap motel a long way from the park. They had been through hell, neither was sure how to move forward or even talk to the other, and they were both afraid. But they had made love, for the first time since leaving the island, and afterwards she had cried and kissed him so hard it hurt. I can't believe we're really here, she'd kept saying. He knew that she didn't mean Disneyland; she meant they were finally in a position to start clean. That afternoon, in that motel, was the first time either of them had a good reason to think that they might really make a go of it. Finally they had gotten up and gone to Disneyland. And so in the photograph her eyes were red, but the smile was real.

She had said come home. She had said please. How often did she ask like that? Why are you here, he asked himself. She had said please. And so he left.

He was already in the driveway before he noticed the car on the street. He went over to look. And then he realized it was from his own dealership. There could only be one car, that model, that color, with tags that new.

**12. Uninvited**

How long had they talked? She remembered how much she had admired him; how many good things there were in him, how he'd struggled against the bad. Back on the island she had looked at Jack, tall and straight and competent, his military haircut, and seen the square-jawed man she had called father. That man had, in the end, betrayed her, shown that he had long believed her capable of the worst. That betrayal had drained her crime of whatever grim satisfaction it might have held; she had known then that her desperate act had been one of complete destruction. In Jack she had had a chance to redeem that loss. She had had the chance to once again be the good girl, the straight-A student. Jack had learned otherwise early on, but somehow she had gone on hoping that his esteem might not only be caught, but kept.

Could it have been? Instead Sawyer had gone on that final mission with Eko and Locke and Sayid. She had let him go without any acknowledgement, with not one kind word. Nor had he looked for any. And when they had come back, dragging a broken Sawyer with them, her pride and her anger had turned to ashes. She had loved him enough to give him her secrets; he had loved her enough to hear them and go on loving her. Her rejection of him had felt as bitter and cruel and unnecessary as her father's.

From that moment on life had become too desperate, and too urgent, to wonder about other things. The terrible decision: how drastic an action should be taken to save his life? Sawyer had said no. But she argued for it, pleaded with Jack. All she knew then was that she could not let Sawyer go, not like that.

For the first time she realized what an awkward position she had put Jack in. She knew how seriously he'd taken his responsibilities as a doctor, how decisions weighed on him. The specter of Boone was close, she knew it, and she used it against him. Poor Jack. When she had begged him, she knew she was also calling on whatever affection—however much affection—he had for her, making him do something he wasn't sure he should do. Much as he had, once, helped her get the marshal's case, even though he'd felt he was doing wrong. She'd had no scruple in using his affection for Sawyer's sake. Her own sake. Once she'd played Sawyer to please Jack; that time she played every string she could reach, for Sawyer's sake. For her own sake.

Poor Jack. A fine thanks he'd gotten for his struggle. Sawyer had raged at him. Jack had made it possible for Sawyer to escape the island without notice. And she—she had gotten on that helicopter with Sawyer without a backward glance. So far Jack had been kind enough not to throw her lack of gratitude in her face. Because she did feel gratitude now; gratitude that such a good man had cared for her, gratitude that, in the end, he had done his best. His best had bought Sawyer and Kate a chance at the life they had now.

Yes, he deserved her gratitude. But she wondered if offering it now might be cruel in its way: thank you for not loving me quite the way I wanted. Thank you for saving the man I chose.

And then, looking at Jack, graying but still so familiar, the quiet competence of the experienced surgeon haloing him, she wondered: Did I choose? Or was I just overcome by events? She looked out over her garden and Cal's treehouse and let the conversation lapse.

It was not an uncomfortable silence. She was deep in her own thoughts, and assumed Jack was too. She did not hear the sliding glass door open.

Sawyer had stared down at the car for a long time. Not possible, he thought. And yet it had to be. Jack had to be here, in his own Goddamned house. With her. Just come to chat over old times, doc? Or is this not your first visit?

By the time he opened the door to the patio, a cold calm had come over him. He remembered facing the bear on the island. The same calm had fallen then, too. What will happen will happen. "Well," he said. His voice was level and almost pleasant. "I would have preferred the poolboy."

"Sawyer," Kate said.

Jack rose. "I should go."

"You shouldn't have come, doc. I thought I made that clear."

"It was an impulse."

"And here I thought your kind didn't give into impulses. If I ever catch you here again I'll kill you."

"There's no need for threats, Sawyer."

"It's not a threat, it's a promise. I trust you can show yourself out."

He had been talking to Jack, but his eyes had never left Kate's. Then he saw the airplane, and even Jack noticed the darkening of Sawyer's expression.

Jack said, "Kate, I'm not comfortable leaving you here."

"Please, Jack," Kate said. "Just go."

"We both know his temper. I'd never forgive myself…."

"You self-righteous jackass," Sawyer said, "I suspect you've forgiven yourself everything already. Now get the hell out of my house. Nothing that happens here is any of your business."

"Jack," Kate said again. This time she took his arm and tugged. "You have to go. Now."

She pulled him through the house. "Should I call the police?" Jack asked at the door.

"If you do, I'll kill you," she hissed. "Don't you understand? He won't hurt me. And even if he does—he's right, it's none of your business." She hesitated. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for—for whatever I should be sorry for. Now please go."

He stopped her from closing the door. "Why didn't you just tell me that you love him?"

She hesitated. "I didn't want to," she said finally. He stepped back and she closed the door.

**13. Taking aim**

Ever since she'd killed Wayne she'd kept a bag packed. Even after all these years, she kept one. She had long ago stopped starting at every sound and looking in her rearview mirror for police cars, but she'd never given up the bag. If Sawyer knew about it he never let on. She kept a change of clothes and shoes, cash, a fake ID, and a gun. She went to the bag now. She did not run, but she took the gun and went down to face Sawyer.

"Here," she said. "Take it."

He took it.

"I haven't done anything wrong," she said.

"So playing footsie with Dr. Schweitzer is right? You're more twisted than I remember."

"I wasn't playing footsie with anyone. He wasn't invited here by me. You're the one who saw him and didn't tell me. You didn't trust me enough to tell me."

"I was right not to trust you."

"No, you were wrong. But go ahead, use that gun if you think you've got cause. But you have to answer one question before you pull the trigger."

He had not held a gun for ten years, but he remembered well enough. From the heft he could tell the clip wasn't full. But he wouldn't need many. Two, he remembered, had been enough for his father. He raised it, got her in the sights. "Ask away."

"What would you give to have not gotten on that plane?"

"I was put on it, I didn't get on it."

"Whatever. Assume you could change that. Would you?"

He had to admire her courage, because he felt as if he could do it. Jack Shepherd. That damned plane. She'd never lacked for courage, though. He admired her brains, too, because she couldn't have come up with a better question at that point. What would he give up to have not gotten on that plane?

She said: "You give up everything else that comes after. Me, Cal, everything. But you get to keep your leg. Would you?"

His arm faltered. "That didn't have to happen. We got rescued the next day. The next day!"

"You wouldn't have lasted that long. Answer the question, Sawyer. And hurry up. Your son will be home soon. Or do you want him to watch?"

"You bitch," he said and turned away. His arm dropped, but he didn't put the gun down.

Would he have really done it? She didn't think so. He'd committed murder once, and it had sickened him nearly to death. But this… She stepped up to him, put an arm around him, pressed her face against his back.

Finally, he said, "I don't want him here again."

"I don't think he'll come again. I think this was—it was just a coincidence. His buying the car. The anniversary. I don't think it'll happen again." She took a breath. "I know how you feel about him. I know that's partly my fault—I wasn't fair to either of you. But at the end, Sawyer, he tried to do the right thing. He saved your life, even if you don't want to believe it. He made it possible for us to get out of there together. I'm grateful to him."

Gratitude he could live with. When she took the gun from him he didn't resist. But the damned plane was still on the table. That was an even greater goad than Jack Shepherd. For Sawyer that plane made clear to him the differences between them, differences that time and money couldn't make good.

Sawyer's life had gone off the rails from almost the start. The day the father had decided to speak his rage with a few gunshots the son was started down a road from which no good would come. From that day until the day he'd left the island with Kate, he couldn't have imagined this: James Ford, honest and successful, husband and father. He hadn't even felt the lack, because it all seemed so ridiculously distant from the life he was living. On the island, early on, he'd told Kate he'd never been in love. It had been the truth. He'd bedded more than his share, and he'd enjoyed it. Not all of the women had been marks. But none of them had touched him.

Until Kate. First and only. No good reason for it, really. He'd had prettier girls and God knows he'd never met one more infuriating. But for whatever reason she reached him, she caught him and held him. What he gave to her he'd never given before.

For her, though, it was different. She had made her wrong turn late. Late enough to have loved elsewhere. What she gave to him she had first given to someone else. She had imagined—with good reason—a very different life for herself. Once she had just been a girl, in love with a neighbor boy, dreaming of being a doctor's wife. Those dreams might have come true. They should have come true. He knew that when she looked at that plane that was what she thought of, and how could any reality match up to that? You'll sink down to my level…

"Would you?" he asked. "Would you have gotten on that plane?"

"I was put on it too. I wish things could have happened differently. But how else could we have gotten here, Sawyer?"

"Why haven't you run yet?"

"I don't want to," she said. "Why can't you believe that?"

"Most days I do. But be truthful. You think about it."

"Not as much as I used to. But so what, Sawyer? Don't you ever think of what might have been? Of course you do. That's why you're still so angry at Jack, and at me. Because you think it might have all turned out better. But life only happens one way."

"That sounds like something John Locke would say."

"Does it? I'm not sure. I hate to admit he could be right about anything. Just on principle."

"You're a hard woman, Freckles."

"That's why you like me." She paused at the door. "I did things on the island that I'm ashamed of. But at the end I had choices to make. I don't regret them."

He had one last thing he wanted to be sure she knew. "I had the passport," he said. "Not Jack. I gave it to him. So you could choose either way. I wanted you to have a chance. Either way."

"I know," she said. "I always knew that, Sawyer. Jack told me."

It would have to be enough. "Put the gun away," he said. "I don't want Cal to see it."

**14. Answer the question**

Cal wanted Chinese, so they had Chinese. He had watched a movie at school, something about ants, and he found it interesting enough to keep him going all through dinner. After dinner he ran out to his treehouse, and his parents settled down on the patio, as if it were just another night, as if nothing in particular had happened. But Sawyer did no work, he didn't pick up his book. He just smoked, one after the other. She watched. She put a hand on his arm and he didn't pull away. After a time he shifted his arm and let her hand fall into his.

As the light faded she said, "What on earth are we going to tell Cal?"

"We're going to lie our asses off."

"He'll find out someday. At least he'll find out something—about the island. He'll know we lied."

"Good, he'll have something to tell a shrink someday. I worry about him being too well-adjusted. It's unnerving."

"It's a serious question."

"I'm fresh out of serious answers. I used them all up this afternoon." But his tone was not unkind.

"Sawyer," she said, and this time he didn't rebuke her. "We can't go through the rest of our lives pretending it didn't happen. Sometimes we have to talk about it."

He sighed. "Seems to me we used to talk about it a lot and we always ended up fighting."

"Because you couldn't forgive me. Because you still haven't forgiven me."

"Forgiven you?" he said. "I'm here, ain't I? I've been here ten years."

"We both know love and forgiveness aren't the same thing." He made a half-hearted effort to pull his hand away, but she kept her grip.

"Is that what you want? Forgiveness?"

"Yes. Not just for my sake. For all of us. For Cal. For the future. I don't want to go on worrying that your anger will ruin all of us."

"Do you worry?" he asked.

"You carried that letter for more than twenty years, Sawyer, and you nearly let it destroy you. Yes, I worry. And I hate to think that our lives are going by and you're not getting all the—the happiness of it that you could get. That I really hate."

He thought for a while. Then he said, "Back on the island, I told you once that you didn't have to play me, you just had to ask for what you wanted. And I'd get it for you if I could."

"I remember."

"I still mean it." He kissed her hand. "I would still get on the plane. Okay?"

It wasn't quite the answer she wanted, but it was a start. "Okay."

A little later, he said, "Jack could make life difficult."

"He won't, though."

"Because he's still in love with you?"

"He was never in love with me. He loved a woman he thought I could be."

"Pretty intoxicating stuff."

"But tiring."

When it was time for Cal to come in, he walked out to the treehouse and climbed up. Cal lay on his back, looking up at the darkening sky through the leaves. "Hey," his father said, "what do you do up here, little rabbit?"

"I pretend."

"What do you pretend?"

"That this is a boat."

"And where do you sail to?"

"To a big island. Far away."

That gave Sawyer pause. As if something of the island had been passed on into Cal's bones. The thought made him cold. But then, he thought, Cal would be an orphan by now, if biology was really destiny. A coincidence; sometimes it's just coincidence. And sometimes we get to choose; we don't always choose wrong. "Well," he said finally. "Just so long as you sail back, Cal."

"Why wouldn't I come back?" Cal asked. "I like it here. Will you piggyback me?"

"You're getting awfully big for this," Sawyer groused, but he managed to get down the tree, and across the lawn ahead of the sprinklers. He set Cal down. "Time for you to go in."

But Cal had seen the plane. He picked it up, blew on it to make the propellers spin. "Cool," he said. "Can I have it?"

Sawyer was watching, she knew. She said, "Of course you can."

That night, after the lights were out, she said, "Are you happy?"

"Call no man happy til he's dead. I read that somewhere."

"Maybe you should stick to science fiction. Answer the question. Are you happy, James Ford?"

"Yes," he said at last. "Yes."

**15. Answering the question (2)**

Jack was worried enough to sit outside the house the next day. In the early afternoon he saw her come out, obviously alive and whole. Not much later, she returned; she and the boy went into the backyard and closed the gate. He drove away.

That had been his last chance to ever solve the mystery of Kate. I didn't want to, she'd said. By being honest she would have given up the opportunity to manipulate him. Or did she mean that she hadn't wanted to love Sawyer at all, much less admit it? Neither answer put her in a good light. But it was more of an answer than he'd ever gotten before.

A few months later he traded the car in. He decided it didn't really suit him, either. He lost money on the deal but considered it a good investment. He didn't admit it to himself, but perhaps he was off the island at last.


End file.
